Veil

Chapter 13

______________________________

Veil squatted on the lip of a ledge beside a cascading waterfall and used both hands to shield his eyes against the mid-morning sun as he gazed east toward the high, valley-wide wall and barbed-wire barriers that marked the entrance to the Army compound. Flanked by sheer cliffs, the compound appeared impregnable.

Veil rose, turned to go back up the trail leading to his chalet, and was startled to find Perry Tompkins leaning against a boulder a few yards away, studying him. Veil was even more surprised that the man had been able to come up behind him without his being aware of it. The burly painter with the huge, black, smouldering eyes was dressed in cut-off jeans, a T-shirt, hiking boots, and heavy wool socks. His face, arms, and legs were burned a ruddy cordovan color from the sun.

"Veil Kendry," Tompkins announced casually, a bemused smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "In a black wig. I thought it was you lurking around here the past couple of days. You don't belong here. What the hell are you up to, pal?"

He'd always wanted to meet Perry Tompkins, Veil thought wryly, an artist whose appetite for life, artistic technique, and breadth of vision astounded him, along with most of the art-conscious people in the world. However, now—wearing a ridiculous wig and in a place where no guest could know his identity—was not the time. He lowered his head, mumbled something about mistaken identity, then started up the trail. As he came abreast of Tompkins, a huge hand reached out and gripped his shoulder.

"What are you doing here, Kendry?" Tompkins continued. His voice was low and menacing.

Veil stopped walking, but did not look up. "Back off," he said softly.

"Dr. Solow says you're on her staff. She thinks you're working for her, which is bullshit; obviously, she doesn't know who you really are. I do. We don't like our privacy invaded, Kendry. Some of us—especially me—might take great offense at your snooping around here."

Suddenly Tompkins grabbed for Veil's wig. Veil pushed away the hand, then blocked the left uppercut that followed. He stepped back and looked at Tompkins, who was staring in disbelief at his left fist, as if it had betrayed him.

"Back off," Veil repeated in the same soft tone. Deciding that his disguise was useless, at least as far as Perry Tompkins was concerned, he removed the wig from his head and stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He took off his dark glasses, put them in the breast pocket of his shirt. "I don't want to fight you, Tompkins."

Tompkins met Veil's gaze. His lips curled back in a sardonic smile, and he slowly nodded with respect. "You know, you could probably hurt me if you wanted to. Not too many men can. The article implied that you were a tough bastard; at least I know you're fast."

"What article? How do you know who I am?"

"I may be responsible for your being here, and I hope I'm not going to regret it. If you're fucking over Pilgrim and Dr. Solow, you may have to hurt me. Does Dr. Solow know who you really are?"

"Yes."

"Why are you here, on this mountain?"

"That's none of your business."

"I told you we take our privacy very seriously. That's our business. And if you're trying to put something over on the people who run this place, I'll take it as my business."

"Pilgrim knows I'm here, and why."

"You looking for somebody?"

"No. Not a guest."

"Working for a newspaper or magazine?"

"No."

"I know you're a private detective. You could have been paid to snoop around here."

"I'm not a detective, private or otherwise."

"You spend a lot of time acting like one. You're acting like one now."

"I paint for money, and sometimes I help people in exchange for other things I need. I have no license. Tell me how you know who I am."

"You tell me what you're doing here."

"It has nothing to do with you, or any other guest at the hospice. I'm not invading anyone's privacy, and I'm not putting anything over on Pilgrim or Dr. Solow. I'd take it as a great courtesy if you'd mind your business, not tell anyone who I am, and get out of my way."

Suddenly Tompkins's great black eyes grew wider and brighter. The muscles in his massive shoulders and arms rippled as he clenched his fists. "Damn, Kendry, I can't remember the last time I had a good fight. How about showing me just how mean a bastard you are?"

"I won't fight you, Tompkins."

Now the eyes glinted dangerously. "Why not? You think because I'm dying I can't still kick ass like I used to?"

"That's not the point. I've got better things to do."

Tompkins, moving more carefully this time, stepped forward and flicked a left jab. Veil casually moved his head to one side and let the punch fly past his ear as he kept his eyes on the painter's right fist, which immediately flashed toward his midsection. Veil could easily have blocked, parried, or stepped out of the way, but at the last moment he decided to take the punch. He braced, tensed his stomach muscles, and hissed softly to focus his chi at the moment the fist landed in his stomach. The force of the blow pushed Veil back a step, but he used even this involuntary motion to advantage, reaching out to grab Tompkins's wrist and pulling his off-balance opponent after him. Veil reversed his direction, stepped around behind Tompkins, and brought the burly man's arm up behind his back in a hammerlock. With his left hand he reached into Tompkins's armpit and pressed a nerve that effectively paralyzed the painter's left side.

"I repeat," Veil said, his voice hoarse from the effort of absorbing the pain from Tompkins's blow, "I'm not here to spy on or embarrass anyone at the hospice, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this encounter to yourself. If and when the time is right, I'll seek you out and explain what I can to you. Under other circumstances, I'd consider it a great honor for you to allow me to sit down and talk with you. I can't begin to tell you how much I admire and respect you and your work. Just trust me for now, Tompkins. And find somebody else's ass to kick."

Veil released Tompkins's arm, turned, and headed up the trail.

"Kendry!"

Veil stopped and turned back. Tompkins was standing in the middle of the trail, thick legs slightly apart, hands extended toward Veil in a kind of gesture of supplication. His incredibly expressive eyes were filled with pain and yearning that Veil sensed were spiritual and had nothing to do directly with whatever disease was ravaging his body. "What is it?" Veil asked tightly.

"Fight me, Kendry. Please."

Veil kicked off his boots, removed his belt and shirt, and started back down the trail toward Tompkins. T his time Tompkins rushed at him like a bull, head down and arms extended out to his sides to grab and maul. Veil waited until the last moment, then took a step to his right, flexed his knees, and came up hard with his left shoulder into Tompkins's left side. The force of Veil's blow combined with Tompkins's momentum sent the big man hurtling into the air at an angle, like a train that had been derailed. Tompkins flipped in the air and landed hard on his back. For a few seconds Veil was afraid he had hurt the other man, but Tompkins had only had the wind knocked out of him. Eventually the man got to his feet and coughed. He took a deep breath, let out a whoop of delight, and charged.

Laughing along with Tompkins, Veil switched from judo to classic karate and aikido techniques, softening and symbolizing the blows but punctuating each strike at the eyes, throat, groin, spine, neck, and solar plexus with a soft hiss to let the other man know that he had been hit. Occasionally he would strike Tompkins a hard, if harmless, blow, for he sensed that the man needed physical pain to drive away, if only for a few moments, his other, more desperate pain.

However, Tompkins's huge fists connected on more than one occasion. With Veil pulling his punches and concentrating on not accidentally hurting the other man, it was inevitable that Tompkins would land a punch from time to time. Finally, with blood running into his eyes and his body sore from pounding, Veil again used judo to flip Tompkins into the air and on his back with more force than he had used before.

"Enough," Tompkins panted when he was finally able to sit up. "Thanks, Kendry. I hope I didn't hurt you too badly."

Veil threw back his head and laughed. Adrenaline was still coursing through his system, making him feel good, intoxicating him. "You're welcome, and you damn well did hurt me. But I enjoyed it. If you'd like, we'll do it again when I have the time."

"I'll be long dead before I'm ready for another tussle with you, Kendry," Tompkins said casually. "You're too fucking good for me." "I'm sorry, Tompkins."

"About what?"

"The fact that you're dying."

"Yeah, me too. Dying's a pain in the ass."

"I can imagine."

"Anyway, I needed to get rid of some venom. You pulled my fangs for me, then stuck them up my ass. You have no idea how god-awful mellow it is around this place, what with Lazarus People who wouldn't get excited if the mountain fell on them, and future stiffs like me. It's been driving me crazy. It felt damn good to fight, yell, punch, and bleed a little." Tompkins sighed and held out his hand for Veil to pull him to his feet. "You drink?"

"I've been known to on occasion."

"Good," Tompkins said, putting an arm over Veil's shoulder and steering him off on a trail leading to the right. "I may not be able to outfight you, but I know damn well I can outdrink you."

"Well, it will certainly be interesting to see how well your massive ego survives two crushing defeats in one day."

Veil, showered and draped in a thick terry-cloth robe that was two sizes too big for him, raised his glass to Tompkins as the other man, wearing an identical robe, emerged from the bathroom. "You certainly don't fight like a man who's dying."

"Lymphatic cancer," Tompkins replied evenly as he poured himself a tumbler of Jack Daniel's over ice. "I've got another five months, maybe six. In the meantime I keep in shape and try to keep going the best I can. Where did you learn to fight the way you do?"

"Here and there."

"I know a little bit about street fighting, and you didn't learn to fight like that on the streets—not even New York's streets. You must have had some pretty fine teachers."

"A few."

"You're not very talkative," Tompkins said, studying Veil as he swirled the liquid in his glass.

"Let's find something we can talk about."

Perry Tompkins laughed. "Good grief, you mean you can't even talk about where you learned to fight?"

"The Army."

"The Army. That's like saying Hemingway learned to write from his second-grade teacher." Tompkins paused, and his smile faded. "Are you sure you're not doing a number on Pilgrim and Dr. Solow?"

"Ask them."

"Do they know what you're doing?"

"Dr. Solow knows some of it, but not all. Pilgrim will confirm that I'm not up to anything that would bring harm to anyone in the hospice."

Tompkins considered Veil's answer for a few moments, then nodded absently. He seemed to have reached some kind of decision. "You've spent a lot of time eyeballing that Army compound down the valley," he said at last. "Something over there interest you?"

Now it was Veil's turn to laugh. "Perry, you're the one who needs a PI license! Why won't you leave it alone?"

"Because I may be able to help you," Tompkins replied seriously.

Veil slowly sipped his drink, then set the glass down on a nearby table. "How?" he asked quietly.

"You want to get in there, right?"

Veil thought about it, nodded.

"Come here," Tompkins continued, motioning for Veil to follow him out onto the cantilevered deck that overlooked the valley. He pointed to the waterfall, a quarter of a mile away. "The light isn't right now, but when it is, you can almost see through the water. I don't know how the hell you'd get down there without breaking your ass, but I do know there's the mouth of a big cave at the base, just behind the falls."

Veil studied the broad plume of cascading water, then turned and looked down the valley toward the Army compound, which he judged to be more than two miles away. "I don't understand," he said at last. "What good is a cave behind the waterfall going to do me?"

"I do a lot of walking around here; it's good for the muscle tone." Tompkins paused and tapped his foot lightly on the hardwood deck. "This mountain is limestone; it's honeycombed with caves. I know because I keep finding openings in the mountainside. I've never gone into any of them, because I'm not into darkness right now. But the mouth of that cave behind the falls is the biggest I've seen. It just occurred to me that, given enough time, patience, and the right equipment, a man might actually be able to work his way through the mountain, down the valley, and come out somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all I know, you could end up dead or in Boston, but I figured you might want to know just in case you don't come up with any better ideas."

"Thanks, Perry. Thanks very much."

Tompkins's lips drew back in a boyish grin. "Come on, Veil, tell me what's going on. We're friends now, and this is the most interesting thing that's happened to me since the doctors told me I was going to die. You can trust me."

Veil laughed. "You won't be denied, will you?"

"Aha. Remember that everyone has secrets that may be of value to someone else. I have my own. If you'll tell me what you're after, I may tell you something that you'll find even more interesting that the cave behind the waterfall."

"Like what?"

"You first," Tompkins replied without smiling.

"A few days ago a man tried to kill me. It's important to me to find out why that happened. It's also important to Pilgrim, because the incident occurred on the grounds of the Institute. He suggested that I use this hospice as a base of operations while I try to find some answers."

"Why not let the police handle it?"

"It's not the kind of thing the police handle well. It's personal, may have roots that go deep into my past, and is just something that I'm best equipped to deal with myself."

"This is getting more and more intriguing," Tompkins said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Maybe so, but I'll have to ask you to be satisfied with what I've just given you—at least for now."

"You think the answers you're looking for could be in the Army compound?"

"It's possible. Perry, you said that you were responsible for my being invited to the Institute. What did you mean?"

"Pilgrim didn't tell you?"

"I'm beginning to think there are a great many things Colonel Pilgrim hasn't told me."

Tompkins grunted. "I've been here six months. I subscribe to about a dozen art magazines, and three months ago I read an article about you in American Artist. The piece had photographs of you and your work. I'd never heard of you and never seen your work, but that article made quite an impression on me—to say the least. I took it to Pilgrim. He took one look at what you were doing, and I knew he was going to invite you here."

"He said so?"

"No, he didn't say so. But I knew."

"I don't understand what you're saying, Perry. Why should my work make such an impression on you? And why should it be so important to Pilgrim?"

Tompkins smiled thinly as he walked across the room to a curtained alcove. "No one else but Dr. Solow and Pilgrim has ever seen these, Veil," he said as he pulled aside the curtain to reveal a deep, three-walled alcove hung with at least two dozen oil paintings of various sizes.

Veil stared at the paintings and suddenly felt short of breath. All of the paintings resembled eerie landscapes, but no such geography had ever existed on Earth. Walls of thick, swirling gray rose up on either side of an arrow-straight strip that was the color of steel. The corridor stretched to infinity and a horizon that was a shimmering, electric blue. The steel-colored strip and horizon were dazzling in their bold brightness, but it was the brushwork in the gray that formed the walls that finally gripped the senses, as it provided the continuing theme of the paintings. If one looked directly at the gray areas, little could be discerned but the technique of the artist combining intricate, fine-line work with gobs of paint from a palette knife to produce an illusion of churning motion.

However, the brightness of the strip and horizon kept drawing the eye back to the center of the picture—and it was then that a viewer's peripheral vision began to register ghostly, many-hued shapes moving in the mist. It was work that came fully to life only when viewed out of the corner of the mind's eye; in the hands of a master like Perry Tompkins, the illusion was unrelievedly haunting and stunning in its power. In an instant Veil perceived all the things he had been doing wrong and understood what techniques he could use to correct them.

"They're beautiful," Veil whispered. He still felt as if someone were standing on his chest. He cleared his throat, spoke louder. "They're different from anything you've ever done before. But why should you want to copy my work— even if you can do it a hundred times better?"

"Ah, but I didn't say I'd been copying your work; I said I'd seen it in American Artist. I also said it had impressed the hell out of me, and now you understand why. For some reason I got the notion to do these things not long after I arrived here. I did one, thought it was a rather clever illusion, and put it aside in order to go back to the other things I'd been doing. This wouldn't let me go; I kept coming back to do different versions."

"Do you dream?" Veil asked, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"Sleep like a baby. These are the visions that—for the last few months, at least—occur to me when I'm awake. At first I thought it was mental fallout from chemotherapy, but I'd been off that for weeks when I started these. Now I've been off drugs for months, and still these visions come. You do your work from dreams, don't you?"

Veil, still transfixed by the paintings, slowly nodded. "You say that Pilgrim and Dr. Solow have seen these?"

"Yes, but no one else."

"Did you show the article to Dr. Solow?"

"No—only Pilgrim. He may have shown it to her, but I have no way of knowing. He's never returned the magazine, and he asked me very pointedly not to mention the article to anyone else."

Veil tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. It was as if he had been struck dumb by the canvases; the paintings held him like some great magnet that was pulling his soul apart and threatening to suck him down the endless corridor and into one of the swirling gray walls where he would disappear forever. He became dimly aware of Tompkins standing beside him, pressing a glass into his hand. He raised the glass to his lips, drank all of the Scotch.

"Rather interesting, isn't it?" the dying artist continued dryly. "As far as I know, you and I are the only two people in the world who independently ended up painting virtually identical landscapes of a place that doesn't even exist."